


Favours from Bogotá

by LaShaRa



Series: Meeting The Family [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bond Calls In Weird Favours, Crack, Crossover, Family Gatherings Are Fun, Fluff, Holmes Brothers, Humor, Meet the Family, Moneypenny Has Weird Friends, Multi, Q Is Weird About Presents, The Holmes Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22162408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: “I am calling in my favour from Bogotá”“...we never ran a mission in Bogotá.”
Relationships: Eve Moneypenny & Q, James Bond & Eve Moneypenny, James Bond/Q
Series: Meeting The Family [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442668
Comments: 29
Kudos: 362





	1. The Tale Of The Intern Who Drank The Tea That Q Gave R In 2016

“I am calling in my favour from Bogotá”

“...we never ran a mission in Bogotá.”

“ _We_ did not. _I_ went to Bogotá and spent three bloody days fighting off crocodiles in a sewer labyrinth from the fifteenth bloody century because _you_ got yourself hospitalized after going bloody rollerblading with Q, leading _me_ to take 005 in your place, a miserable option which ended with my delightful stay in the aforementioned reptilian sewers.”

“Oh. _That_ mission.”

“Yes, precisely, _that_ mission.”

Eve Moneypenny hums thoughtfully, tapping her pen against the lip of her empty coffee mug. “I was under the impression that those were alligators.”

“They were not. They were orinoco crocodiles, binomial name _crocodylus intermedius,_ and I know this because I spent _three bloody days_ in the company of fifty-five such individuals - all of whom were _an average of_ five metres long - attempting to not be eaten. I assure you, they were crocodiles.”

“If you insist.” Eve puts down her pen and begins tapping at her coffee mug with one perfectly manicured nail instead. “Are you sure there were quite fifty-five? Q told me they were an endangered species.” 

“They were. It’s possible that they are now extinct in the wild.”

“Oh, dear. That seems unfortunate.” Eve rotates her mug slowly by the handle. “Do you think-”

The mug disappears from her hand. Eve blinks. Stares at empty space for a moment. Looks up.

James Bond - Agent 007, Unholy Terror (What Was M Thinking) Of MI6, and Eve’s best friend - stares back at her. Extends his arm towards the ceiling, her mug dangling from his thumb. His eyes are wild. His face bears an even stronger resemblance to a craggy slab of cliffside than usual. “Eve,” he rasps, staring at her as though attempting to bore a hole through her poker face with the power of his mind.

Eve’s poker face could withstand a direct hit from an ICBM. “James,” she replies, eyeing her dangling mug. A drop of stale coffee dribbles out of it and lands on the five-thousand pound lapel of Bond’s suit. He doesn’t appear to notice. “Moneypenny,” he tries again. “I’m calling in that favour. I would advise you to capitulate. The fate of your favourite mug hangs in the balance.”

Eve very slowly arches a single eyebrow, a là Tanner, but it appears that Bond is beyond such trivial concerns as puns. The situation is more dire than she’d thought. She considers dragging it out, because pushing Bond to his limits is _fun_ \- it reminds her of her field agent days - but then again, it _is_ her favourite mug. As a mug it’s nothing spectacular, but it was a present from Q. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Quartermaster is territorial about his presents. He likes to see them in use. Everyone in Q Branch - at MI6, really - knows the Tale Of The Intern Who Drank The Tea That Q Gave R In 2016. There might be a print version of it in the briefing packet for new agents. 

Really, it would be the height of stupidity, even for Bond, to allow the from-Q-to-Eve-with-maniacal-love mug to shatter against the floor from seven feet in the air. On the other hand, Bond pushed to his limits is not usually a man capable of rational thought and _she_ would be foolish to assume otherwise.

“Very well,” she sighs. “Call it in. Unhand the mug first,” she adds, and watches in satisfaction as Bond places it back on her desk, gently enough that the china makes no sound on the wood. Not so far gone, then. “Now. What can I do for you, James?”

He stares at his four-thousand-pound-leather-clad feet. Breathes. Fidgets. Sighs. Eve waits, because this could still prove to be fun. Eventually, Bond looks up at the ceiling and grinds out, “I need to buy a present.”

“No wonder you cashed in Bogotá - I mean, your boyfriend's homicidal emotions regarding gifts are _documented_ as vital information for the organization -”

“ _It's not for_ _him.”_

Eve blinks. To her knowledge, Bond is alone in the world except for Q, even more so since the successive debacles of Silva and Madeleine. She picks up her mug again and begins rolling it idly from hand to hand. “Use your words, James. I can't help you if I don't have the intel.”

More sighs. More fidgeting. And then - 

“It’s for Mummy.”

Eve drops the mug. 

For a moment, they stare in shared horror at the shards of china on the floor. Then Bond turns baleful eyes on her, face lit ghoulishly with schadenfreude. “Well, Eve, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

“Kindly go to hell, James. Oh, but before you do, I’m calling in my favour from Amsterdam. You’re going to help me fix this blasted mug, right now, and if you so much as breathe a word to Q, I’ll tell him you’re responsible.”

"You're a cruel woman, Eve."


	2. The Tale Of The Evening That Could Have Ended In Disaster But Didn’t

To say Captain Watson is displeased would be an understatement. 

“Sherlock.” Slam of fridge. “What.” Rattle of kitchen cupboards. “The bloody hell.” Smash of cupboard door. “Have you done.” Crash of fist on table. “With the tea things!”

Baritone rumble from the living room. “John, I’m not at all sure what you mean.”

“ _ Bloody buggering fuck! ” _ comes the answering roar. “Tea things, Sherlock! Milk, sugar, mugs - oh, bloody hell.” John Watson comes to a sudden halt on the kitchen threshold, his mouth snapping shut with a grim click as he catches sight of James where he stands in the open doorway of 221B. “Of course.”

“Oh, those tea things,” continues Sherlock Holmes, lying full length on the sofa with his fingers steepled under his chin. It’s a familiar gesture to James, who’s seen Q do it any number of times over his thirteenth cup of tea and a particularly interesting bit of code. “Haven’t the faintest. But I’m sure Mrs. Hudson could be persuaded to bring up a tray for us - any requests, Agent Bond?”

Bloody Holmeses, thinks James, stepping into the apartment and shaking hands with the long-suffering Captain Watson. Evidently they’ve got eyes in the backs of their heads, in addition to the eyes they have all over London. “None at the moment, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’ve told you not to call him that,” mutters Watson, in an uncanny echo of what has become Q’s favourite complaint at their bizarre little family gatherings. He walks over to the sofa, grabs a fistful of Holmes’s bespoke trousers and dumps his legs unceremoniously off the side before sitting down in the vacated space. Holmes flails wildly for a moment before managing to sit up straight and level a poisonous look at James. It’s not quite a glare yet - most people think twice before glaring at individuals like James - but then Sherlock Holmes is not most people. “Why are you here, Agent Bond? Is the world ending again?”

Watson snorts. “Sherlock, he’s  _ James Bond _ . If the world were ending, do you really think he’d be  _ here _ ?”

“You’d be surprised,” says James, and he’s being entirely honest. The protocols drawn up by both Q and Mycroft Holmes regarding their eccentric sibling and his slightly unhinged partner (hypocritical as those descriptors may sound) in the case of world-ending circumstances are formidable and extensive. They’ve all learned their lessons well. “But no, Mr. Holmes, the world is not ending today.” James ambles over to the window and angles a glance at the street; Holmes sighs and flops back down to continue staring at the ceiling, folded up like a piece of origami. Watson tracks James’ movements with lazy, careful eyes.  _ Once a soldier.  _ “I’m just here for the family gathering,” says James.

Holmes erupts off the sofa, managing to clip Watson’s cheekbone with an elbow as he goes. “What gathering? Whose family?  _ My  _ family?” he shouts, paying no heed to Watson’s grunt of “ _ Sherlock,  _ you  _ tosser-” _

James settles himself beside the window, a polite smile plastered on his face. Holmes stalks towards him, long fingers spasming at his side in a way that would alarm most people, but then James is not most people . “No, no, get out now, families are tolerated under this roof only in the immediate aftermath of near-death experiences and thanks to you we’ve already had plenty this year, there’s no need for more, get  _ out -  _ ”

“Now, Sherlock, is that any way to talk to your second-favorite brother-in-law?”

Even in the midst of chaos, the soft burr of Q’s voice never fails to soothe something deep inside James. He watches, smiling, as the youngest Holmes brother walks into the flat, unwinding the wooly scarf that James had tucked round his neck that morning. “Good afternoon, Doctor, lovely to see you,” he says to Watson, who nods wryly, still cradling his cheekbone; he steps neatly around Holmes, who is spluttering, and leans into James’ space. “Hello, you,” he murmurs, and James lets the smile break fully over his face, leaning back towards him. 

“Well, isn’t this... _ cozy _ ,” says a prim voice from the doorway; James looks around Q to see Mycroft Holmes stepping inside, tapping his umbrella against the floor. Q smirks at him; his official driver and Myrcroft’s have been trying to outpace each other for months every time Q and Mycroft are expected at the same venue; the junior agents have been placing bets on the final outcome like it’s Ascot. Clearly, Team Q won today’s lap. 

“ _ You! _ ” Sherlock bellows, rounding on Mycroft before Q can get a snide word in. “Oh, this was all your design, wasn’t it? Why are you  _ here? _ John, why are they here? Get rid of them at once, this flat simply cannot contain any more foolishness - ”

“Yoo-hoo! I thought you boys could use a cuppa!” sings Mrs. Hudson, bustling into the room with a tea tray.

“Oh, this is hell, it has to be,” exclaims Sherlock. Q muffles a giggle in James’ shoulder; Mycroft simpers beatifically and sits himself delicately on the now-empty sofa, Watson having disappeared into the kitchen. “Bit crowded up here, isn’t it?” observes Mrs. Hudson, trundling around the coffee table and setting out saucers; Q sniffs the air hopefully as the scent of fresh butter cake fills the room. “But it’s so nice to see you all together, you should really do this more often - ”

“We should not do this more often,” says Sherlock in a strangled voice. His face is taking on a haunted look. “What we should do, in fact, is lure Mycroft out into traffic with that cake, and as for the rest of you - ”

“The rest of you will stay right where you are,” commands Eve Moneypenny, stepping into 221B with all the subtlety of a tigress entering a pen of unruly goats. “After all, Mrs. Hudson’s baked a cake - it’s only polite to stay and have a piece.”

“Oh, hello, Evie dear,” cries Mrs. Hudson, “Wonderful to see you again-”

“Again?” Sherlock yelps. Everyone ignores him. Mycroft is furtively cutting himself a piece of cake. John emerges from the kitchen as Eve turns to face the room, holding a package of frozen peas to his cheekbone. “Oh, hullo,” he says, peering at Eve. “Anthea take the day off?”

Q has by this time given up all pretense at composure and is weeping tears of mirth into the back of James’ suit. Eve crosses the room towards them; her own suit is telephone-box red, nails painted to match. “‘Evie dear?’” echoes James, grinning. 

Eve arches an eyebrow and mimes dropping something from a great height. “Smash.”

James feels the grin slide off his face.  _ “Bogotá,”  _ he snarls.

“Oh, piss off, you paranoid bastard.”

“Smash?” queries Q, lifting his head from the folds of Bond’s suit. “Bogotá?”

“Never you mind,” says James. “Let’s go and sit down while Eve sets up.”

Mycroft makes a noise of pure outrage; they turn to find him clutching the cake plate to his chest as Sherlock clambers onto the coffee table, a feral glint in his eye. His head dangerously close to the light fixtures, he roars, “ _ Someone explain to me what is happening here or I will set this flat on fire!” _

There’s a choking noise behind them. Everyone turns as one to face DI Gregory Lestrade, who has frozen on the threshold, his hand halfway to his sidearm. “What - we got a call from an Agent Moneypenny - robbery in progress at 221B - ”

“Eve Moneypenny, pleased to finally meet you,” Eve says smoothly, taking control of the situation the same efficient way James has seen her take control of caffeine-withdrawal-induced mutinies in Q-Branch. She produces a digital camera from some unknown realm, possibly the same place which houses the illegal firearms Q makes for her. She waves Lestrade into the room, flashing a sunny grin; James sees him visibly steel himself, and feels for the man. “And be ready, Detective Inspector,” says Eve. “As you can see, we’re about to steal some hearts.”

In the corner of the room, Captain Watson begins to laugh, in the helpless, crazed manner of a man who has lived far too long with lunatics.

*

Only one copy of the photograph is ever printed; it’s a glossy, oversized thing, tucked into a handsome mahogany frame. The setting is 221B Baker Street, just before sunset; the light in the picture is low, almost sepia toned. Seven subjects. Martha Hudson is at the centre of the group, on the sofa, looking thrilled beyond words to be there; she is flanked by Captain Watson, looking supremely amused, and Sherlock Holmes, looking absolutely deranged - so predictable, her Baker Street boys. DI Lestrade is leaning, almost slouched, against the sofa arm next to Watson, hands in the pockets of his suit, expression genial, hair glinting softly silver. Next to him, Mycroft Holmes, standing ramrod straight, hands folded over the handle of his umbrella. He is not smiling, but a crumb of buttercake has adhered to his right knee and one of his elbows is just out of sight, behind the curve of the detective inspector’s shoulder

Q is perched on the sofa arm next to Sherlock, because he is the only person in the room apart from Mrs. Hudson capable of being in such proximity to the madman and escaping unscathed - and also because Q is a contrary little gremlin who would rather perch than sit like a polite human being. His cheeks are pinked with suppressed laughter and his hair is nearly as tousled as his Sherlock’s. His spectacles are crooked. To James, he is radiant. 

James himself is standing slightly behind Q. His right hand is curled loosely around Q’s right shoulder; he doesn’t remember making the gesture and Eve didn’t call him on it. His stance is wide and he is closest to the door. His eyes hold friendly threats of violence to the red-lipsticked spy behind the camera and his mouth is soft like it never is in public. He looks like he belongs.

“Oh,  _ James! _ ” exclaims Mrs. Holmes again, startling James out of his reverie. Her eyes are bright and her hands tremble on the picture frame. Out of the corner of his eye, James sees Sherlock make a gagging face; Mycroft, walking past, smoothly cuffs him in the back of the head. James suppresses a grin. “It’s lovely, just lovely. The best gift I’ve had in years! However did you get them all in one frame?”

“I had a bit of help,” James says blandly.

“Well, it’s wonderful. Their father must see this at once!” Mrs. Holmes gets to her feet and leaves the sitting room at speed, calling for her husband. Sherlock makes a noise of disgust, struggles out of the floral sofa that has engulfed him and stalks from the room, presumably to find Watson, who has retreated to the garden with Lestrade. 

The faint scent of Earl Grey is all the warning James gets before Q sidles around the back of James’ armchair. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have made those crocodiles quite so extinct?” he asks, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Being their houseguest seems to have turned out quite well for you, in the end?”

“You make an interesting point,” rumbles James, reaching up to adjust Q’s scarf. “Also, you weren’t even on comms for that mission. You were in Medical, holding Eve’s hand.”

Q’s laugh sparkles like the glass ornaments hanging in the window. “I’m the Quartermaster, 007. I know everything.”

“Of course you do,” says James, pulling him down for a kiss even as he makes a mental note to buy Eve a new mug as soon as they get back to London. One Bogotá situation a year is more than enough.


End file.
